


Looking Up

by DancingGrimm



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Based on a voice line, Dom/sub, Foreplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4385003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingGrimm/pseuds/DancingGrimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His wrists aren't tied, but a simple word spoken in his ear, a firm squeeze from long fingers, keeps them in place as securely as if he were clapped in irons.</p><p>He wasn't expecting this. Any of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking Up

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little snippet, based on [this voice line](https://wiki.teamfortress.com/w/images/2/2f/Sniper_domination23.wav?t=20100625223321).

It's strange how profoundly Spy feels that he is in the correct place. Not in broad terms, nothing so basic as the bigger picture. Simply in the here and now, he belongs exactly where he is.

 

Here and now, he is kneeling on the rug in his own bedroom in the base, at the foot of the bed. He is naked; no suit, no mask, no knife. He sits on his heels, moderately uncomfortable, his hands crossed at the wrists behind his back. His wrists aren't tied, but a simple word spoken in his ear, a firm squeeze from long fingers, keeps them in place as securely as if he were clapped in irons.

 

He wasn't expecting this. Any of it.

 

Sniper sits on the foot of the bed, barefoot and bare chested. His shirt and undershirt and glasses are in a neat pile on the night stand. He holds a cigarette between the fingers of his left hand, but he isn't really smoking it, every few minutes just tapping the ash off into the plastic ashtray that's balanced on his left thigh. The scent of the smoke is comforting to Spy. Sniper's right elbow rests on his right knee, and held firmly in his right hand is the broader end of Spy's neck-tie. The other end is still knotted around Spy's neck, not tightly. He's only barely aware of the pressure of Sniper's grip on the fabric. He's used to feeling pressure around his throat. It's not unpleasant, per se.

 

He keeps his eyes on Sniper. Sniper keeps his eyes on him.

 

Spy has lost all track of time. Abnormal for him; it's been trained into him, years past, to always keep a firm grasp on how much time is passing but, if not for the orange evening sunlight spilling across the floor from the crack in the heavy curtains, he wouldn't know if it were night or day. Sniper could have had him here for hours, holding him prisoner with symbolic force.

 

There's a little part of his mind telling him he shouldn't be here, shouldn't feel so damnably captivated, but he cuts it off cold. His instincts are hard won and usually correct, but the way Sniper's looking at him holds far too much potential for him to back away now. The other man is utterly calm, sitting so very still, eyes taking Spy in like he's memorising every line in his skin. But it's a transient calm with something deadly behind it, the smug serenity of a predator with a full belly. Spy can already feel sharp teeth bursting through his skin.

 

He's so aroused he thinks he might be shaking.

 

Sniper takes a deep drag off the stub of the cigarette and drops the butt into the ashtray, and Spy feels every muscle in his back seize with tension at the tiny noise it makes. But Sniper glances away to move the ashtray from his leg and place it on the bed, blowing out a cloud of smoke, and suddenly Spy can move his eyes, can look down at his own legs, muscles twitching and faint marks left on his skin from where the seams of his trousers lay. He looks at Sniper's long, narrow feet, his long legs, his crotch where the fabric of his jeans is pleating around his flesh just enough to make Spy frightened that he is alone in being this affected – it _could_ be tricking his eyes, it's not impossible. Then he raises his gaze back up to meet Sniper's, and he knows that that fear is unfounded. He opens his mouth to speak.

 

Sniper cocks his head to one side just slightly. Raises his eyebrows. Just slightly.

 

Spy closes his mouth.

 

“Good boy,” Sniper says, a husky hint of sound on tobacco scented breath. His lips shift and Spy wonders if it's a smile or not, but before he can decide, Sniper leans back, raises his leg, and places the ball of his right foot against the centre of Spy's chest.

 

Pushes.

 

The pressure increases until Spy realises that he's supposed to be moving with it and he leans back, the muscles of his stomach clenching, the tie pulling smoothly through Sniper's grip. Sniper's whole foot is flat against his skin now, dry and cool, and still pushing. He leans forward a little to follow Spy's movement, and Spy manages to get his toes on the carpet underneath himself so he doesn't crush them, and goes back, back, back, further and further, thighs and abdomen burning, until the tie slips from Sniper's hand and falls lightly against his side. Until his shoulders touch the carpet, and Sniper follows him now, rising to stand over him, one foot still pressing on his chest, the other planted down by Spy's hip. He looks a mile tall, rising into the sky while Spy is trapped under the weight of that narrow foot, his hands still at his back, crushed beneath him, still crossed at the wrists. His heels are tucked up against his buttocks, like he's kneeling even now.

 

He's can't move; he's too aroused, out of control of himself.

 

He can't move; Sniper won't let him.

 

He can't move; if he does, this might stop.

 

He holds himself still.

 

Sniper tilts his head to one side and rakes his eyes over Spy's body. The corners of his mouth quirk up, just a little, for a second. His hands are on his hips, and as Spy stares he starts to slide them inwards, towards the fly of his jeans. Spy's eyes follow the slow movement as keenly as if it meant life or death. Long fingers stretch across his flat stomach, find the round brass button on the waistband and pop it open. Spy swallows a mouthful of saliva, and his throat is thick and aching, the noise of it a wet din in his ears. Now Sniper is standing, he can see the long shape of his hard cock, trapped against his abdomen by the denim. It's angled to one side, must be uncomfortable. But Sniper just undoes the button and returns his hands to his hips, elbows tucked back, relaxed.

 

Spy has to squeeze his eyes shut, clench his jaw, and when he looks again Sniper is grinning. All teeth.

 

The pressure of the foot on his chest lifts slightly, and Spy is astonished, somewhere in the back of his mind, to realise how little of Sniper's weight was resting on him. Sniper spreads his toes and rubs Spy's chest hair with them, and Spy looks down and wonders if that should feel odd. It's an odd thing to do. He can feel a trickle of fluid spilling from the tip of his penis onto the skin of his lower stomach. He can feel the difference between the texture of skin on Sniper's heel and that of his toes.

 

Sniper shifts his weight and the foot slides sideways, the arch fitting snugly against the curve of Spy's ribs and stroking slowly up his side, slowly back down over skin that's suddenly burning.

 

Spy drops his head back on the floor with a thump, and looks up at Sniper beseechingly. _Please stop. Please hurry. Please explain to me how you're doing this_. Sniper still looks so calm, despite the grin. His hands are in the pockets of his jeans now, his shoulders relaxed, so casual, as if he doesn't even care that Spy is struggling to breathe. He licks his lips, runs the tip of his tongue over his incisors like he's making sure they're ready to use, the way he runs his fingertips over the cutting edge of his kukri before heading out onto the field. His hands push deeper into his pockets, and the movement pulls at the denim enough that the zipper starts to shift, and suddenly all Spy can hear is the tiny _tick tick_ of metal teeth. His next exhalation leaves his mouth with a helpless creak of sound and there's delight flickering in Sniper's eyes.

 

The pressure against his side ceases as Sniper places his right foot on the floor and shifts his weight again to stand astride Spy's chest. Spy's heart is thudding, he can feel his pulse all the way from his ankles to the underside of his tongue. His ribs feel like they're going to break.

 

Slowly, Sniper crouches, leans down towards him, and he hears the tick of the zipper yielding a little more ground.

 

The gravel-rough texture of Sniper's voice is scratching against the inside of his skin before his ears make sense of the words;

 

“I reckon you're gonna get real used to lookin' up at me,” Sniper says to him.

 

 _God willing, yes_ , Spy thinks.

 

He doesn't say anything. The look in Sniper's eyes tells him that it's written all over his face.


End file.
